Disinter
by Royal Scribe
Summary: How DID Count Phillipe de Chagny discover how to trace the dark paths that lead to lake Averne... Leroux-based.


Lala, I don't own any of the good stuff, all hail Leroux

* * *

"I suppose we can never really know for certain," the servant commented, steam flowing as he poured the guests their tea.  
Raoul turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"  
"Well, one can never really rely on absolutes, with him."  
In that moment the count and countess de Chagny fixed the man with twin looks of intensity.  
"...It wouldn't be the first time he faked his death, would it?" Darius offered, weakly.  
The two guests and servant had now all fallen absolutely silent.  
"Ah, that one's a long story."  
"_DAROGA_," Raoul thundered.  
The man in question re-entered his living room, and saw his servant's nervous, guilty face cast towards the fine, woven carpet. He looked tired.  
"Yes, Count?"  
Raoul's voice was horribly quiet and calm, the sort of calm that hinted at hysterics. "Is there any chance, a _hint _of a_ possibility_, that he could have survived?" And the count could not felt feeling a stab of pity, despite himself, at the deep, wretched sadness that lined the other man's dark face as he spoke.  
"I'm so sorry," he said, hands limp at his sides.  
"_Is he still alive?_" Raoul cried, exploding from his seat.  
"I... I swore an oath," the man said helplessly. "I'm so sorry..."

For a long moment the air lay still and shattered between that fateful company.  
"I am nothing if not a man of my word...but I don't suppose there's much use being obtuse now that the cat is out if the bag, so to speak." The Persian smiled weakly.

* * *

"I fear there are many mysteries surrounding the opera house that, even now, are not apparent to you. Mysterious that concern even those closest to you, kept secret for your own benefit...

You see, when your brother would go to visit that ballet girl, Madame Sorelli, he would hear strange things. I believe it was only in jest that she told him about the fears and rumours which circled among her corps du ballet, but he was taken with an odd feeling of foreboding. When he wasn't enjoying her company he was pacing the opera house, asking questions. He even went so far as to pester the managers. I fear that if he were not so charming a gentlemen and not so subtle in his investigations, he would have gained some ill reputation at the house- As I have," he added dryly. "At any rate, the managers seemed to confirm his suspicions with their harassed, nearly defensive manners, and he continued his search. His fatal curiosity eventually lead him below the opera house, into _his_ domain. I'm not sure how often the Count ventured down there, but it must have been often enough for him to make any sense of that labyrinth. _He_ must have noticed. I'm surprised no tragedy touched your brother earlier than it had. After some time he reached the lake, though I am unsure as to how he did it. It was here that we first met. I would sometimes rendezvous with the monster, you know. I had meant to meet him after the conclusion of _'The Magic Flute'_. He frequently returned to his home by different, secret paths than the lake, or returned home, so I had been waiting some time for a sight of him. When I spotted your brother instead, I was extremely alarmed. Erik may have been soft with me, if you can call his extreme acidity of manner and his death threats soft, but he did not tolerate strangers in his domain. I tried to remove your brother from the lakeside immediately, but the man was horribly obstinate. That is when he illustrated to me his investigations thus far. He asked me all sorts of alarming questions, such as "Who _are _you?", "Why, I hadn't idea there was an entire subterranean lake down here, why ever does a boat rest on its shore?" and "What _is going on _in this opera house?" I simply shook my head, and told him that it was safer if he never learnt the answers to those questions. How infuriatingly obtuse I must have appeared from his perspective, innocent he was of the strange, evil secrets that nestled like rats beneath the Paris Opera! But something in my urgent tone and desperate, pleading manner must have impressed him, for with much cajoling I managed to chase him from the basements. Almost as soon as he left, at the corner of my eye, I saw a sepulchral shade detach itself from the surrounding shadows.

'Charming, isn't he? He's been poking that aristocratic nose of his about all day you know, interrogating door shutters to joint-managers. If he trespasses once more, or gets ideas into the head of some scene-shifter or another, I'm afraid I shall have to take matters into my own hands.'  
'How would you know whether the fault lies with him, or if some employee took it upon himself to wander down here?"  
'I hear all things that take place in this opera house.'  
'You don't hear as much as those ballet-girls think you do.'  
'And how much is that?'  
'Everything,' I admitted.  
He laughed briefly, a cold, sharp sound. 'It's a pity that you didn't introduce me to the inquisitive little Count, for now I shall have to make the small effort of stalking him into some dark corner to murder him. Or perhaps a strongly worded letter would suffice. But the former does take rather less effort...'  
'Erik, you will do no such thing!'  
'Oh, I know that the labours of my penmanship are not exactly picturesque, but they suffice well enough!'  
'I swear that if any misfortune befalls that poor gentleman, I _will_ kill you.'  
'Hah! And I thought that I was the one who makes threats in this relationship.'  
'That was not a threat.'  
'No?'  
'It was a promise.'  
The devil had the audacity to laugh, but it was a cold, black sound, and all the humour seemed to have gone out of him.  
'Well, I promise that if you do anything to get in my way, you shall sleep with the black waters of my lake for bed sheets. Good day, Daroga.'

Before I could attempt to reason with him further, he had stepped into the shadows and disappeared. He always had made an infuriating habit of dissolving traceless into the night, but it was only two day until I saw him again. He stood by the lake like a tall, thin spire that a gargoyle face sat atop of.

'Count de Chagny has sent me the most wonderfully docile letter in response to my own correspondence. I must confess, I am quite pleased with him.'  
Though I was somewhat taken aback by what appeared to be a maddeningly abrupt change of heart, I was accustomed to his violent mood swings and deadly caprice. I simply stated 'You have elected for the strongly word letter in lieu of the murder, I see.'  
'Apparently. After all, it would be a pity to slay our prime benefactor...'  
'Our...what?'  
'Oh, have you not heard the most fortunate news? Our good count promises to be the picture of good behaviour, and be most agreeable in the reception of whatever helpful suggestions I may have. If fact, bearing such an opulent family name as he does, he has resolved to become a most liberal patron of the opera! In a fit of zealous generosity, I fancy.' Erik tittered to himself, hands fluttering, resembling for all the world a repugnant imp freshly summoned from the eighth circle of Dante's hell, or perhaps from the flaming depths of Saqar. 'Perhaps he was entertaining thoughts of that dear ballet-girl of his. She is fond of the opera.'  
'You dare take advantage of that fine young man?' I exclaimed. 'Fiend! You truly are monster!  
'My good Daroga, I can always depend on you to parade pre-established fact! For your final act shall go so far as to declare me liar, brand me murderer?'

In a fury of rage I moved towards him- to do what, I do not know- but he was on like a bird of prey, bony claws tightening convulsively on my arm.

'The blind catfish of my lake will feed upon your corpse!' He spat those words the way a cobra spits venom, his cloak billowed like a storm cloud, yellow, electric eyes boiling in the black tempest of his wrath. But then he was gone as swiftly as he had appeared. I was left rubbing the mark his cold hand had left on my arm, praying for the life of every poor soul that had the misfortune of populating that wonderful, wretched opera house. I vowed to protect them all, but I fear I was not the brave hearted, competent guardian I wish I could have been. That your brother deserved..."

* * *

Raoul had remained frozen in his seat for the entirety of this fantastic discourse, pale-faced and silent. "And you know nothing of what became of him?"  
"No. Believe it or not, he met with me regularly in the time before that great maelstrom of misfortune ever swept us all into the claws of tragedy. But afterwards..." Here the man paused, voice trailing.

"He came to me twice, and on the first occasion I was quite convinced that it was the last I would ever see of him. He was inconsolable, barely coherent, frail as a sparrow, and every laboured inhalation seemed from him a Herculean effort, every rasping exhalation a death rattle. Three weeks later he returned to me declaring that he wasn't going to die after all, that he _could not_. This came as quite the surprise to me (even numbed as I am to his fickle moods.) He looked dreadful, worse even than his usual, appearing more than ever as if he belonged to the grave. However, he raved with a maniacal vivacity, insisting that death denied him sleep, that his magnum opus, his Don Juan triumphant, needed to be re-written! Still, he was very insistent that I go through with my public announcement of his death in the _Epoque_. I am not sure why, but his feverish discourse featured many delusions and I could not pick lucid thought from chimaera out of that kaleidoscope mind. He cried out his desire 'to be a ghost no longer,' to cease haunting us all, and to be "properly dead." For all his impassioned declarations, I could not say why he boasted continued life while he so wished for death. But that is the convoluted nature of the monster for you. When that funeral character fled my apartment, it was as if the arm of a hurricane had swept over my home, only to leave clear skies in its wake. I have not seen him since, and I confess that I did not try to find him. Perhaps he has resolved to die, after all."

* * *

Oh gosh, this is messy and awful and I'm pretty sure ,even without bothering to fact check ,that it makes very little sense. Even so, I really did wanted to publish _something_ already. Consider this an in-progress dump. Or a scrap piece of thought. This is part of something meant to be part of a much larger whole, so I understand that it is quite brief and fragmented, but comments, critiques, and what have you are nonetheless wholly welcome. I'm quite new to this whole "share your writing with others" thing


End file.
